


Hands On Education

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: Sometimes Yuri forgets that Otabek is older than him. And not just in the "has four years of seniors on him" way or the "his old-ass body is going to crap out of competition before Yuri’s does" way or the "doesn’t have to go to fucking tutoring everyday because he graduated, the lucky bastard" way. Because, like, yeah, all of that’s true, but on any given day it doesn’t particularly matter. They mostly do all of the same stuff, and know all of the same people, and have the same job, so, like, what’s the big deal, right?Tongues.Tongues are the big deal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still getting my writing mojo back, but this show ate my soul so I made a thing. The thing is porn. You're shocked, I know. 
> 
> Anyway, I liked the idea of inexperienced little nugget Yurio, and also, lbr, this kind says "fuck" all the time in his head, that's just a fact. So expect both of those things. Ages are unspecified, so you can kind of read it however you want, but I mentally envisioned this sometime in the year post-S1, which would make Yuri ~16. As we old folks say, don't like, don't read! 
> 
> (I literally could not think of a title for this, why is this my life?)

Sometimes Yuri forgets that Otabek is older than him. And not just in the  _ has four years of seniors competitions on him _ way or the  _ his old-ass body is going to crap out of competition before Yuri’s does _ way or the  _ doesn’t have to go to fucking tutoring everyday because he graduated, the lucky bastard _ way. Because, like, yeah, all of that’s true, but on any given day it doesn’t particularly matter. They mostly do all of the same stuff, and know all of the same people, and have the same job, so, like, what’s the big deal, right? 

Tongues. 

Tongues are the big deal. 

More specifically, that wriggly, slippery, suckley thing that Otabek’s doing to Yuri’s tongue right now. 

It’s… it shoud be gross. It makes a  _ sound _ , for fuck’s sake. A wet, kind of sticky, almost slurping, horror-flick FX type of sound. It’s  _ foul _ . And it’s jacked up the temperature setting on all of Yuri’s internal organs to about 500 degrees. 

Celsius. 

He’s supposed to have learned how to convert that to Fahrenheit, as if that’s a fucking useful skill, but that flew out of his brain right along with square roots, and the location of Guam, and, like, nouns. 

The fact that he still remembers how to breathe is fucking medal-worthy. 

Which he totally does remember. He can tell because he’s doing it really hard all over Otabek’s face the second Beka pulls back enough to give him dominion over his own mouth again. He so did not need it. Otabek’s welcome to crown himself grand lord supreme over Yuri’s tonsils for all he cares. 

Only instead of doing the logical thing and waging a hostile takeover of Yuri’s molars, Otabek just sort of nuzzles at him. Really just at his mouth. Prickly stubble like Yuri still can’t fucking grow scratches against his chin, and the soft part of his cheek, and like, his fucking nose. A hot-bright scrape in counterpoint to the melt-smooth slide of their lips skidding off of each other, still all slicked up with spit from the Kazakhstani tongue magic, and why the fuck is gross stuff so sexy? Viktor and Yuuri make so much more sense now. 

“Okay?” Otabek slips somewhere into the cruel, impossible little sliver of space between them. 

Yuri’s elbow skids on the plastic-y duvet as he tries to get that sweet mouth fusion thing going again, Otabek dodging back another unnecessary wisp of distance. 

The completely epic bitch-fit Yuri’s planning to lay down - because, really, man?  _ Really? _ \- blurts out of him sounding like a drunken squeaky-toy, so there’s a proud moment to remember from his first makeout ever.

Holy shit, he’s totally making out with Otabek. 

“You’re shaking.”

Ticklish-soft, the tips of Otabek’s fingers coast along the back of Yuri’s hand, tripping over the tendons sticking out from his white-knuckle grip on Otabek’s v-neck t-shirt. Beka smells like hotel soap, and fried food, and sweat, the longer top of his hair sticking up at the back against the padded headboard. He looks like a fucking tool and Yuri wants to touch him so bad it’s like being carbonated on the inside. 

Flipping that one annoying chunk of hair that always falls free out of his face, Yuri snaps, “No, I’m not.”

Except for how he totally is. 

He’s the fucking Men’s Grand Prix champion. He’s a world record holder. He’s literally the best men’s figure skater on the fucking planet and he fucking refuses to be scared of doing some shit that the losers back at his old school have probably done a hundred times in the backs of cars, or broom closets, or wherever the fuck people make out.

Fuck, he doesn’t even know where people make out. 

He’s become a fucking social deficient from spending his entire life on ice, and this is really not the time for a bunch of “ice queen” puns to start ping-ponging around his skull but there you go. 

Not like that’s news, exactly. The social deficient or the “queen” thing. Most of the people he hangs out with are contractually obligated to be trapped in the same room with him for long periods of time and he’s spent half his fucking life analyzing the way other guys move, how they work their bodies. He’s been jacking it to the bunch-flex of muscles coming out of a perfect quad Salchow since he was 13; he knows what he’s about, okay? 

And Otabek’s in the same boat, besides being, you know. Stupid hot. It’s just that Otabek’s social deficiency comes off as, like, enigmatic and alluring as opposed to Yuri’s, which has more of a  _ go die in a fire _ flavor. Also Beka looks like an underwear model, rides a fucking motorcycle, does tongue things that douse Yuri’s brain in kerosene, and he’s probably made out with like  _ a billion people. _

God, he’s probably  _ had sex _ with them, and doesn’t that just send a veritable rainbow of hot wax emotions dripping down the slats of Yuri’s ribs. 

The thing is, Otabek didn’t even mean it as a fucking accusation. It’s not like he’s calling Yuri a pussy or anything, even though going all jelly-jiggle trembly over being kissed by a cute boy is some bona fide pussy ass shit. That, at least, Yuri could be pissed about. Could get off this creaky hotel bed and kick Otabek in the nuts and slam down the hall into Viktor’s suite to enjoy the sweet retribution of making sure nobody is getting any. 

But that’s not the kind of shit Otabek does. Beka cares about the people he cares about and he ignores the other 99.999% of the population; no bullshit, no fronts. He wanted to be Yuri’s friend, so he asked to be. He wanted to kiss Yuri, so he did it. Slow and sweet and barely there at first, not pushing at all.

Like he was expecting Yuri to freak out. 

Like he figured that Yuri was a no-game-having, blushing, never-been-kissed virgin he need to  _ go easy on _ and Fuck. That. Noise. 

Otabek makes a totally undignified  _ smersh _ sound when Yuri shoves their mouths back together. Hard. Possibly with some biting. 

Okay, definitely with some biting. 

In his defense, Otabek’s bottom lip is, like, weirdly bitable in a way he can’t believe he’s never noticed before. Going by the way Otabek’s hands zing like magnets to Yuri’s hips as he climbs into Otabek’s lap, he’s not getting the impression Beka minds. 

“Asshole,” he mutters anyway, for the way it turns each sound into a mushed-up near-kiss. Licks the glossy shape of the words off Otabek’s front teeth and pulls back to admire the stunned-dumb look on his obnoxiously pretty face. Kind of hazy and ruffled where he’s usually so put together; dark across the nose and the tops of his cheeks, the soft mew of his mouth the sort of strawberry-candy pink that’s not supposed to occur in nature. 

Yep, weirdly bitable. 

Still deliberate, but not cautious anymore - not holding fucking back, holding fucking  _ out _ \- Otabek’s hand runs up his back over his shirt, every last tiny peach fuzz hair along the way standing on end until Yuri’s skin is tingling and each shift of his tee as he breathes is like an oven-fresh shot of adrenalin right to his core. 

Otabek’s fingers slink cat-burglar quick over the nape of Yuri’s neck to hide out in his hair, little near-pain tugs as that shifts the messy low bun Yuri had slapped it into when Otabek picked him up. There’s a lot to be said for motorcycles, but the wonders they do for long hair is not among them. 

Beside the point anyway when Otabek snags the tie and gently works it out until the whole mess falls free, fine blonde hair slithering across his shoulders and over his collarbone. Despite it all, there are knots in it from the bike, humps and waves from being pulled back. Otabek sinks his fingers right back into it anyway, only this time it looks like the tugging’s on purpose. 

Tugging Yuri’s mouth right back down to him, that it, and wow, yeah, okay. Better. Like, drastically. He’s got Otabek’s chest under his hands now, all hot muscle and soft cotton and these tiny sub-audible sounds that Yuri only knows exist because they’re vibrating shivery into the flats of his palms. Thighs underneath him so he can feel the twitchy jump of muscle every now and again, an aborted flex like Beka’s just barely fighting down the urge to grind up on Yuri like Chris halfway through a free skate.

And there’s an idea.

Between one kiss and the next he pauses, sucking down a shock of over-refrigerated air that does nothing but feed the electric fizz in his stomach. Just, like, a second to psyche himself up for it, thank fuck Otabek’s shirt is keeping his sweaty palms a secret, then swivel the hips forward, don’t think about Eros, press down...

“Yuri,” falls out of Otabek’s mouth, raw as fresh meat, flat-out gutted, which would be really fucking gratifying except for the fact that Yuri’s entire train of thought just slipped the fucking tracks, fucking blammo, careening across the countryside with his braincells hanging on for dear life. 

Holy shit but that’s good. 

He’s so hard. Him. Otabek. Both of them. Mutually. Together. 

Fuck. Sex is gross  _ and _ it makes him stupid. He’s going to have to fucking  _ apologize _ to Viktor and Yuuri. He understands now. He has seen the light, and it is in Otabek Altin’s pants. 

He’s pretty sure there’s a segment of the internet that already knew that. 

Otabek’s hands smooth up and down Yuri’s sides like he’s trying to slow him down or some shit. Mostly it just ends up rucking his shirt up under his armpits, nothing for Otabek to rub against on the downstroke but skin that lights up firecracker-bright, and oh yeah, that’s the stuff. 

Why the fuck is he wearing clothes? Why is anyone ever wearing clothes when instead they could be getting touched by Beka and his warm, kind of calloused, super-fantastic hands? 

Only not, obviously, because Yuri will fucking fight somebody, just fucking try him. 

But, like, yeah. Skin. Skin is great. There should be so much more skin. 

He’s hoping the look on his face right now is marginally less dopey than the one on Otabek’s, but he really kind of doubts it. 

The next dive for a kiss skids wide, Beka’s mouth getting lost somewhere along the wing of his jaw, the soft spot underneath. Teeth find the rim of his ear, drag over the lobe, hot sting, hot breath pouring into him, splintering into something liquid and starburst sharp as it trickles down his spine. 

Grinding down again isn’t so much a choice as a biological fucking imperative. Necessary as the air he’s not getting, because there’s no room left in his chest around this trembly, swollen want. 

God, he really hopes there’s not some kind of trick to this because he is rolling hard on a big ol’ fistful of instinct and a bunch of stuff that he’d really rather not know from walking in on Yuuri and Viktor. Mila and the hockey douche. Lilia and Yakov that one time that will haunt his nightmares until the day he dies. He really needs more people in his life who know how to lock fucking doors. 

Also, some heavier duty, because as comfortable as they are for ballet, his leggings are doing fuck all for stealth here. Not that his massive fucking boner is, like, some state secrets or anything. Not like a few years back when he used to awkwardly pop wood over nothing and then frantically pretend to tie his skates until it went away. Not like Beka can’t feel how Yuri’s about twelve seconds from coming all over himself every time their hips meet in that perfect, brain-murdering rhythm Otabek’s guided them into. 

Drunk-fumble elegant, he finds himself shoving a hand right down the front of Beka’s shirt, no clue he’s even going to do it until he’s got a handful of pec, hard little nipple bumping against his fingers and Otabek’s breath a wet hiss in his ear. He’s never had chest hair himself, but Otabek’s got a patch right at the center that Yuri totally has not obsessed about in any kind of creepy way. Ticklish against his wrist, rasping against the scrape of his fingernails. He wants to rub his face against it like a fucking cat. Wants to fucking come in it, watch it go dark and slick and spiky against the head of his cock. In a totally normal, non-creepy way. 

Fuck, he feels like he’s going crazy. 

Otabek’s fucking  _ making _ him crazy with the hot cold trail of his mouth down Yuri’s neck and the dirty tease of his fingertips tucked into the back of Yuri’s pants. Nowhere even close to any of the good stuff and Yuri’s fucking boiling for it, so hot he’s going to leave Otabek with a fucking major surcharge from housekeeping when he explodes into little tiny pieces because nobody could possibly contain this much  _ sensation _ .

Everything he’s ever known about rhythm is gone, mowed flat by the current singing through his veins, the desperate clench of his insides every time the button of Beka’s jeans slides just so against his dick, the cattle-prod jolt of muted heat when the sopping wet spot at the tip meets the sliver of skin over Beka’s pants. He can feel his lips peeled back in a snarl, fingers digging into Otabek’s shoulders as the pressure between his legs pulses brighter, hotter, like a heating coil gone white, ready to burn anything that gets too close. 

Otabek’s eyes are a black diamond glint watching Yuri grind against him, watching Yuri fucking  _ use _ him, hands flexing on Yuri’s hips better than a rink full of applause. Another electric thrill to add to the tally in the lax shape of his mouth drinking in fast, jagged sips of air. Addictive. Like climbing the podium. Like the clop-hiss of a flawless jump. Like fucking winning, and no wonder people are obsessed with this, all of the wallop and none of the work. 

Who’s the blushing fucking virgin now, huh?

Who’s… who…  _ fuck _ .

Rough fingertips cut a path up his stomach, muscles fluttering long after Otabek’s moved on to his chest, the bob-jumping shape of his Adam’s apple. Pushing itchy strands of hair back off of his face, and Yuri’s so far past thinking when he turns into it, Beka’s palm like a layer cake slice of pure summer, sweat salty on his tongue as he licks into the bowl of it like he’s fucking deranged. Sinks his teeth into the fleshy base of his thumb in a feeble bid to keep in the helpless, gravelly, mewling noise he can feel mountaineering up the back of his throat. 

So busy that he totally fucking misses the main event coming at him until it plows right through and blows his mind out the back of his skull.

Fuck. 

_ Fuck.  _

There’s a cramp in his foot that he can only assume is from how hard his toes just curled and his thighs are burning in a way that a full day of practice can’t usually achieve. His fucking  _ nipples _ are throbbing and he’s pretty sure neither one of them even touched them, like just being that turned on was enough to totally fry his nerves. The less said about the inside of his leggings right now, the better. And still,  _ still, _ it’s like a fucking temple. Like fucking Zen, right here in Otabek’s lap. This sweet, simple, carved out calm, like if Otabek tapped him he’d ring struck-bell clear, completely hollowed out. 

Beautiful. 

Spit strings from Yuri’s mouth when Otabek reclaims Yuri’s erstwhile chewtoy. Genuinely disgusting and somehow still some fucked up kind of hot. God, he’s really messed up. 

Sharp red semi circles stand out like a blotchy tattoo on Otabek’s palm, but it doesn’t look like Yuri broke the skin, so, you know, victory? Otabek swivels his thumb, that sort of lift to his face that really  _ isn’t  _ a huge, fuck off smug grin even though it kind of is, for Beka. 

Yuri swallows back the surge of soupy embarrassment that wants to crumple his shoulders with a, “What?”

Of course that’s the moment Otabek decides to slide his hands back up under Yuri’s increasingly sweat damp shirt, a smear of his own saliva for a highlight as those fingers slip behind him, up to the wings of his shoulderblades and back down again, a bubbly little crawl of pleasure in their wake, soothing and overwhelming all at once. Yuri shivers like he’s built of toothpicks, ready to shatter at the first wrong move. 

And what the fuck is that shit? 

Okay, things got a little out of hand there. And, okay, he sort of just humped his best friend until he came in his pants like a twelve year old, which is not the most persuasive argument for his ability to handle this shit maturely, but he is not fucking breakable, okay?

He is tough.

He is the Ice Tiger of Russia.

He is not going to be the only one in this room with a lapful of jizz.  

“Your turn.”

Barreling straight through the baby fawn weakness that wants to take over his limbs, Yuri presses a hand down over the fly of Otabek’s jeans. Eager heat nudges back at him, a stuttered little gasp puffing out of Otabek even as this look slithers into the nooks and crannies of his face like he’s about to say some dumb shit about Yuri  _ not having to _ or something. 

Luckily Otabek’s pretty good at knowing when to shut the fuck up. Having Yuri’s hand shoved down the front of his pants may or may not be factor. 

And, alright, up front and honest here? Yuri’s thought about touching another guy’s dick before. Kind of a lot. Beka’s specifically, even. Actually feeling it is a whole other thing altogether. 

Denim bites into the back of his wrist and there are exactly zero comfortable things about the position of Yuri’s arm and none of that is actually registering in his brain compared to the humid, satin drag of Otabek’s fucking cock in his hand. 

Otabek’s fucking hot cock.

Otabek’s unexpectedly silky, leaking, so sexy Yuri kind of wants to die cock. 

It’s a knife’s edge between giddy fear and desire that freezes Yuri’s breath solid somewhere around the vicinity of his voice box. For a change, Beka’s making enough noise for both of them, a really epic combination of husky ground-glass moans dragged out thready and thin and little hiccupy breaths that are maybe meant to be words but never quite make it. Yuri’s officially in love with them. Wants to taste them. Leans in close suck them like smoke right out of Otabek’s mouth, let them zip around his lungs with a heat lightning crackle. 

Given the opportunity, Otabek licks along the inside of Yuri’s lip, a dirty wriggle that turns into Otabek going from broke. Like, for real feeling him up from the inside out, totally fucking going for it now, like the secret to gold medals is tucked somewhere between Yuri’s tastebuds and that’s something Yuri’s not going to be able to get enough of, like, this century. 

There’s almost no room to move like this, trapped by Beka’s jeans and both of their bodies. His knuckles keep scraping against Otabek’s zipper, and he can’t even reach the whole thing at this angle. It’s probably the top 10 worst handjobs anybody’s ever gotten. It’s turning Yuri on to a degree that’s flip-flopping the sticky mess of come clinging to his own dick back over from gross to sexy again. 

With a little maneuvering that tweaks something maybe important is his forearm, he manages to get his thumb up to the head, a warm gush of slick like a welcome mat as he brushes the foreskin over the ridge and back. Otabek breathes like a bellows, kisses gone sloppy and distracted. 

Because he can, because he likes it, Yuri nips at Otabek’s bottom lip again, the sandpaper stubble on his chin, the ball of his cheek. Aside from the hand in his hair, he wouldn’t even swear Beka notices. 

Wave smooth, he’s rocking up into Yuri’s fist, stilted little fucks weighed down by Yuri’s perch on his thighs. With the headboard against his back he can’t stretch out, but his head tips back, a faint shuffing sound as he grinds his head against the fabric of the headboard. And seeing as it’s right there, Yuri takes the opportunity to go ahead and lick Otabek’s throat like a popsicle and earns himself one hard, full-body flinch for the trouble. It pulls at his hair again, and Beka mumbles something that might, possibly, share the same universe with an apology if Yuri cared enough to listen to more than the rock-candy-sweet growl of it. 

Or maybe it was a warning, but either way, he’s completely off the map when Otabek up and comes all over his hand. 

Realistically he knew that was going to happen. Hoped for it even. The reality is… wet. Almost exactly the same as when he gets himself off. So hot he thinks he might actually go blind. 

And what a fucking shame that would be, because Otabek? Otabek’s a fucking god when he comes. Yuri’s literally never been more attracted to anyone. He wants to strip them both naked and do the whole thing over again, and then like eight more times just for good measure. 

Then maybe a nap. 

And a change of clothes.

Extracting his hand from Otabek’s pants teeters the scale back in gross’ direction. The muscles in his forearm are quivering, come slowly going gummy in the webbing between his fingers. Wrinkling his nose at the stringy threads spidering between his knuckles, Yuri lifts up the trailing edge of Otabek’s shirt and wipes off the worst of it. 

So. That just happened. 

He just just got all up on Otabek Altin and made orgasms. He’s an orgasm craftsman. 

He kind of feels like something important in his brain may have come loose somewhere in there, and also like he should probably be having a heart attack right about now. Mostly he’s just wondering if there’s any way to, like, ninja-post Otabek’s lazy world-rocked post-sex sprawl online without the photo getting yanked in ten nanoseconds. Or Beka killing him. The world deserves to know about Yuri’s masterful, hand-crafted orgasms. 

The world deserves to know that the next twee ice dancer who tries to seduce the Hero of Kazakhstan is going to have to go through Yuri. 

It’s another long second before Otabek flutters his eyes open. They’re still glassy, slow to focus on the clingy hem of fabric pasted to his belly. He plucks at a fold of it like it just crash landed in the middle of his hotel room and he’s trying to figure out how the hell it got there. 

“Vicious,” he says, glancing up at Yuri, voice a honey-thick drawl that makes Yuri’s stomach try for a triple axel. Then his thumb is at Yuri’s chin, nothing but a suggestion of pressure, and still more incentive than Yuri needs to tip forward again, gets his lips snugged right back up against Beka’s.

“True,” he agrees, and if his grin is leaning toward the carnivorous, well Otabek knew what he was getting into. 

After all, he’s still got a lot to learn. 

**Author's Note:**

> I always forget tp add this! I'm on Tumblr as [Bewaretheides315](http://bewaretheides315.tumblr.com/)!


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